Who could have thought Dale would be the bearer of the news? If I had stopped and thought about it, I should have guessed. The guy owns a gallery, after all.
Mental note to Mateo, never ever invite that prick to another one of my shows, and don’t send the usual Christmas card and hamper either.
Katherine is sobbing.
Before I realize what is happening, she’s throwing something at me. It lands with a metallic clang on the floor near my feet.
“Here’s your fucking key and key ring. Give it to the next model you pick up and fuck.”
And without another word, she turns on her heels and walks out.
I’m too numb to follow her. When the door slams shut, I slowly bend down to pick up the key ring.
That’s that then, I think and put the painful memory into the bottom kitchen drawer. It is the drawer with all kinds of useless things in it, the sort one finds in kitchens or laundries. It is the drawer least used in my apartment.
I don’t know how long I stand there. It could have been seconds, a few minutes or an hour.
In my mind, I replay what has just taken place. A hysterical Katherine barged in and accused me of something I’m not guilty of. The reason behind all of it: Dale. Dickhead Dale.
Eventually, I walk back into my studio. I don’t turn the music back on. My day has been ruined.
I walk over to my paintings, my babies. I stare at the one of Katherine. Then I find a cover and throw it over the artwork.
I will decide the fate of the nude tomorrow, tomorrow is another day after all.
I make myself a cup of coffee and convince myself what has just happened is for the better. Who needs an unstable emotional woman in their life? Not me, no thank you. I have been managing just fine by myself, and I will do so again. It was fun while it lasted and now it’s time to move on.
My coffee goes cold. I don’t feel like drinking it. I don’t feel like painting. I don’t feel liked doing much of anything.
I slump onto my couch and sigh. Why had she not even wanted to hear my side of the story? Surely, she of all people must understand there are two sides to every story. I never expected Katherine to be the person to jump to conclusions and act before asking some pertinent questions.
I put my head back against the couch. Such a pity, she is a real gem.
But who needs women? With sudden bout of energy I get off my butt and make my way into the studio. Time to brush into the canvass, time to show her I don’t need her in my life. I painted just fine before I met her and I will be just fine now that she has left my life so abruptly.
Blake
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
How could you have been so stupid, my reflection screams at me. And I shake my head.
My spoon swirls aimlessly in my bowl. Not even my favorite breakfast cereal tastes any good any more.
With Katherine gone, it’s as if someone has taken all the oxygen out of my apartment.
The ship is sinking and I am the only one left on it. A voice deep down tells me to do something about this.
Mateo had tried to warn me. He said something about the art world being a small community and other things I no longer recall.
I toss my half-finished bowl into the sink. Silently I apologize to Camilla for the mess I’m leaving.
Was it arrogance on my part that had caused this train wreck? I should have known Dale would stick his head in where it doesn’t belong. After all, he had done the same with his dick.
I pace my apartment like a caged animal. The walls feel as though they are closing in on me. How could I have been so stupid?
Of course dickhead Dale would get into her ear: Dale whose dick had caused so much hurt and upset.
I kick my oversized exercise ball and watch it roll across the floor. With a sigh I walk to the studio. Maybe painting will help.
It is without any enthusiasm I mix my paints. I have to force myself to pick up a paintbrush.
Listless, I move my brush into the red and then make random strokes across the canvass.
A broken heart emerges. My broken heart.
I can’t understand what motivated Dale to blab to Katherine, particularly since he doesn’t know the whole story, the entire surprise.
I sigh.
Then I punch the canvass and see the red on my knuckles. Bastard. Prick. Asshole.
Take some responsibility man, my inner voice grumbles.
I finish smashing the canvass. I feel no better.
Maybe I should start over.
I grab another blank canvass and start again. This time I’m using yellow. A giant round face with tears running down its cheek shows up. It kind of looks like an emoji. It brings a smile to my face, briefly. From world-class paintings to fucking emojis – maybe that’s all I’ll be able to do without Katherine in my life.
I should have thought things through. If I had given it more thought, I would have realized Katherine is vulnerable. She had been in a relationship with a bloke who had totally betrayed her.
I try to picture what that would feel like. How would I feel if Katherine had been with another guy whilst we were together? The image is like someone kicking me in the gut.
Ok. So I have screwed up.
I made a complete mess of things.
Leaving the painting I have started, I cross the studio and pull the cover off my masterpiece.
As soon as my eyes see her, my dick stirs.
For once, stop thinking with your dick, I remind myself.
I needed to fix this but I’m not sure how. Should I destroy the painting? And then what?
At the thought of destroying this amazing piece of art, I feel as if someone is stabbing me right through the heart with a pointy dagger. No I couldn’t destroy it. If I destroyed it I had nothing left. This way I at least have Katherine on canvass.
But I if I want to get her back, I have to do something.
In total frustration, I pace the length of my studio. Pictures of Katherine doing this after she had seen the painting of herself flash into my mind.
I run both hands through my hair. There must be a way to make amends. I’m not the bad guy. Dale’s to blame. Dale and that shriveled cock of his.
I might have fucked some of my models, but I would never cheat on a woman, particularly a woman I love.
Love. A four-letter word that has so much meaning.
It hits me; I love Katherine.
Maybe if I…
A plan builds in the back of my mind. Maybe I should try again and this time, do it properly. This time I need to do it thinking about Katherine and not myself.
I grab my mobile. I need to make a call. In my haste I drop the darn thing and it falls to the ground.
I groan and pick it up. Now the blasted thing has gone totally black. Don’t tell me it’s broken. My finger fumble to find the On button and I press it down. I wait. I count to four, yet the stupid thing’s screen remains black. Surely one fall could not be responsible for the death of the phone, or could it?
What should I do?
Suddenly I recall I did not recharge my mobile the night before. Maybe it was just out of battery.
I almost run into the bedroom where I keep the recharge.
As soon as I plug it into power source, a little red symbol appears.
Phew, it only needs a recharge. For some reason it seems to take hours for the phone to have enough battery for the display to come to life.
I crouch down next to the bedside table and scroll through recent calls. I’m tempted to call Katherine but I know she won’t answer it. The last hundred or so had gone straight to message bank.
Should I try a text? No, this time I’ll have to do something more personal.
My fingers scroll through contacts and hit call when Mateo’s name appear on the screen.
“What’s up, man?” Mateo shouts into the phone. Judging by the background noise he is somewhere where music is being played too loud.
“The show will go
ahead Mateo.” I say and wish I wasn’t restricted to crouching. I’m too worked up to be sitting still.
“I can’t hear you Blake.”
I shake my head.
“That’s better.” Mateo comes through loud and clear.
“I was calling to tell you the show will go ahead. I’ll be attending to some changes. But you make sure it goes ahead please.”
I end the call before my agent can ask questions. I have work to do. I need to win back the woman I love.
Katherine
“Do you want the red one or the white one?” Robin calls from the kitchen.
I squint as I rummage through the movie choices my best friend has brought with her to cheer me up. None of them will do. They are all romance films with spunky main characters and a happy ending.
A churning in my stomach has me almost run to the bathroom to throw up.
“Are there any bubbles?” I answer. I want something expensive, preferably French. Since the publication of my first book I have acquired several bottles of the expensive stuff, and the plan has been to drink them for a special occasion.
Well, this is a type of special occasion, I guess.
Tears threaten to spill yet again, and I quickly take a deep breath. Robin will kill me if she finds me a blubbering mess on the couch, again.
“I’m sure there’s some from the publisher in the door.” I call to her before she can respond. I hope my voice does not betray me.
Seconds later, Robin appears with two glasses, puts them down, and disappears again. When she reappears, she’s carrying a large tray of goodies.
My heart does a little somersault as I realize the effort my best friend has gone to. On the tray is the most amazing assortment of food. There’s an abundance of salty things, fatty foods and plenty of sugar. Did I mention there was plenty of a fatty food?
Robin picks up her glass and holds it out to me.
“What shall we toast to?”
My hand shakes just a little as I automatically recall the toast with Blake where he promised.
What a lying scumbag he turned out to be.
“Let’s toast to friendship,” I manage to whisper.
“Friendship.” Robin’s glass touches mine and I listen to the ping the crystal glasses make as they gently collide.
I close my eyes as I enjoy the cool bubbles dance across my tongue. When the champagne finally slides down my throat, I quickly take another sip.
“You need to try this.” Robin holds out a chunk of chocolate.
“Rocky road?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Better.”
I lie back into the mountain of cushions I have brought out from the bedroom onto the couch. This is the life. How long has it been since we had a girl’s night?
I steal a guilty glance in Robin’s direction. I have neglected our friendship a little since Blake had been on the scene.
“So what do you want to start with?” Robin holds up a couple of movies.
“Not sure,” I mumble. The lump in my throat grows again and those darn tears are always just below surface, ready to spill at the most insignificant of things.
“There’s Greek god, fine Englishman,” she scans the back cover. I’m not sure if she’s looking for a suitable description for the main male character, or if she cannot work out who is the actor. “Or we could go for dependable but not much to look at.”
I grimace.
Robin puts down the films, takes another sip of her drink, and then busies herself with food.
“You know,” she starts, and I hold up my right hand like a policeman directing traffic.
“Don’t.”
Robin devours what looks like one of those arancini balls and I’m reminded of the time I had Blake’s balls in my mouth. Those blasted memories stalk me day and night.
“What do you mean stop?” She has finished chewing. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Her lips are in a pretend pout.
I roll my eyes. “You were going to tell me to call Blake and talk things over with him.”
Robin smiles. “And what’s wrong with that?” Her fingers pick up different pieces of the delicacies to examine what’s on offer.
I sigh and slump into the cushions. For effect, I pull one over my face.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that idea,” I say and pull the cushion away. “It’s a stupid idea. Just like getting involved with Blake was a mistake in the first place.”
“A big fat mistake.” I shake my head. “I should have learned my lesson with Dale.”
“Men are useless and only able to think with their dick,” I continue. “I mean, I stumbled right into the next bloke who had a reputation of fucking his models and then discarding them. I knew. I knew and still I went ahead to make a fool of myself.”
I stop and look at Robin who is grinning at me.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
Robin leaves her seat and comes over to wrap her arms around me. She squeezes me and then let’s go. “You are what I’m laughing at. Listen to yourself. Are you trying to talk yourself into Blake being the bad boy you actually don’t know him to be?”
My head hurts, and I’m not sure I understood what Robin just said.
Before I can ask her to repeat it, and this time in English, a knock at the front door interrupts our peaceful evening.
With my heart beating a little faster than usual, I walk over and open up. Given my track record, I’m a little more cautious about visitors.
“Mademoiselle Katherine?”
I nod in acknowledgement.
He’s not a policeman, but the young man is wearing a uniform of sorts. He hands me a large white envelope, and is gone before I can say anything else.
Confused, I head inside and hold up the envelope for Robin to see as I sit back beside her.
“Open it, “demands Robin and watches me turn the strange stationary over.
“It doesn’t say who it’s from,” I hesitate.
This time, its Robin’s turn to roll her eyes.
Slowly, I take a silver knife from the tray and slide the envelope open. I pull out a large white invitation with purple letters on it.
Invitation for Katherine is written in the centre with a flourish. Underneath it are the words Art Show of Blake. Below that says Invitation for one.
Robin reads the words the same time I do and claps her hands.
I’m confused. An art show for one?
“He’s going ahead with the art show but only inviting you.” Robin is near delirious with joy, she’s practically bouncing on her seat.
“So?” I have mixed feelings and don’t know what to make of it.
“He’s trying to make it up to you.” Robin is talking slowly as if I’ve suffered a head injury. I hear the Duh? at the end of the sentence even if she doesn’t say it. “You are going, aren’t you?”
Up until she asked, I wasn’t sure. It’s so strange. What if I make another mistake?
I can’t help but notice the writing is in purple, though, not gold or black, the way these things are usually done. Had Blake remembered I told him my favorite color is purple?
“Katherine?” Robin prompts.
I look at her and make a decision. “I suppose I’ll go.”
Katherine
I take a deep breath and glance at my reflection on the window of the little antique shop next to the gallery.
My knee-length black dress hugs my body and I smile. Someone once told me to feel good, you must look good. And who has not read the book Clothes Maketh the Man?
Tonight, with all kinds of insects crawling over my skin and insides, I find it is so true.
It has taken me several hours to find the perfect dress. At first I had been tempted to go in a tracksuit and sneakers. But who was I kidding? I would not feel good if I turned up looking like a tramp. And so I spend an hour trying on different outfits.
In the end Robin had chosen this dress.
Whilst on the fac
e of it, it looked black, in the light you could see streaks of deep purple reflected in the material. It’s a low-cut dress, so I decide to wear a long silver necklace with a pen pendant on top of it.
Accessories are everything.
A matching purse was hanging over my shoulder with only my phone and a credit card in it. I had no plans to use the ladies nor touch up my makeup. I was pretty sure I would not be staying long.
Little diamond studs are my earrings of choice for the night, and black velvet shoes with high heels and little bows on the front of them complete my look of sophistication.
It takes all my courage to push the heavy doors of the art gallery open.
The bright lights highlight the emptiness of the space. As I slowly put one foot in front of the other, I realize there is no one else here. Well, no one besides Blake and now me.
With my heart beating wildly in my chest I take tentative steps toward the centre of the gallery. I can see paintings along the wall. There are numerous paintings. My eyes wander from one to the other but I cannot see the painting I’m looking for.
I feel Blake’s eyes on me. His gaze travelling slowly from my head to my toes. My nerve endings instantly start to tingle. I’m not here to fuck him, I tell myself and pull my shoulders back a little further.
Slowly I make my way toward the first painting. I’m mesmerized by the display of color. It appears to be an abstract work of art. As I stare at it, I can feel the joy emanating from the picture. Yellows, light pinks and reds dance on the canvass in joyous movements.
I move onto the next one. Blake has come up behind me. I wish he stayed where he’d been when I entered the gallery. He hands me a champagne flute.
“Care for a drink, madam?” He looks nervous.
I mumble something like thank you and am careful to take the glass from him without any skin contact.
As I walk from painting to painting, I realize I’m reliving the development of our relationship. It’s all there in abstract art and wonderful colors. The blues are so melancholic I swallow back the tears.
The last one is the one that really tugs at my heartstrings. A black background with dark red lines scrawled in a messy fashion over the canvass clearly depicts heartbreak.
The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 137